


i feel it in my bones (escape the world i know)

by delusion



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bestiality, Blackouts, Come Inflation, Dry Humping, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, Humiliation, It wrote itself, Knotting, M/M, Manipulation, Rimming, Shame, Shapeshifting, don't look at me, i didn't ask for this, listen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusion/pseuds/delusion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson is so desperate to get off.</p><p>So, <i>so</i> desperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i feel it in my bones (escape the world i know)

**Author's Note:**

> be aware that this contains (god help me) **explicit bestiality**. if that ain't your bag please exit stage left!
> 
> consent: starts off without much, and gets to shamefully dubious consent

He knows he’s pathetic, and isn’t that the worst of it all? The oppressive warmth bears down on him, the sticky humidity of summer air cloying against his skin. The window of his tiny room is wide open-- not like it matters to him, being on the twentieth story of an aging apartment building-- but there is no breeze here, in the city. There is only the scorching heat.

Sucking his lip in between his teeth, Samson lets out a little sound of frustration, his hips stuttering to a stop against his mattress.

Samson has trained his mind to be blank, for this. To block out all things, both inside and out, and that is exactly the crux of his problem. His cock throbs in agreement, red and tired.

He cannot come, like this. With just the shameful rutting. He’s rubbed himself raw against the comforter, and Samson curses. Once, twice, then a litany as Samson tries just one more time to bring himself to completion.

It’s no use. He knows what he must do.

Furious-- with himself, the world, everything-- Samson pulls out several items from his shabby bedstand, with all the airs of a man about to attend his own funeral. 

In his eyes, that might as well be the truth.

With a grimace, Samson slicks his fingers with lube, staring at them for just a moment with utter disdain and dismay. This is what he’s reduced to. Finger fucking himself after an hour (or two, or more) of trying to get off in the one way that used to guarantee his completion. 

He presses a cool digit against his entrance, and already it feels like a fever is breaking. This is what he needed, and if only his hand were larger, broader, stronger-- no. Samson has sworn to himself: block it all out. Block out blond hair, block out the laugh, block out the inquisitive look in his eyes (better than the disappointment, than the betrayal) and it all boils down to sensations.

Samson adds two fingers, stretching himself wide with a burn that rips reality away from him, right as they catch just-so against that bundle of nerves inside him. He resents their existence, just as much as he craves  _this_. This loss of self, this debasement. Good for nothing but pleasure, and a sorry excuse for _that_. He thinks of a faceless, voiceless, nameless someone, who takes control of his every move. 

Takes is a word that isn’t violent enough: they would  _wrest_  it away, reduce him to nothing. Samson’s breath catches as he sets a brutal pace for himself, fucking his ass with wild abandon, slick dripping from his hole. The only reason any of this is humiliating is because of Samson’s own complexes: he looks down on himself for daring to take pleasure, when it’s not at all what he deserves.

That thought tears a whine out of him, thin and reedy. It carries across his efficiency, startling the dog.

Fuck.

It was a big thing, for a stray. Barely looked like a dog at all, really. Sturdy in the shoulders, wolf in the face, a scar across his muzzle. With eyes too intelligent, the thing sits back on its haunches, sniffing the air. He idly licked his chops and yawned, looking almost like he’d go back to sleep, so long as Samson quieted down.

But he’s not sure if he can fulfill that expectation. Nothing like letting even the dog down, the one he’d found loitering around, that had followed him home and nipped at his heels, and taken the utmost of care to  _watch_  his every move.

 _Fuck_. Samson is tempted to pull his fingers free. But he’s so fucking  _close_  his entire body hums with need. His lean body is drawn tighter than a bowstring, and so when he might usually cease this shameful charade that was his sex life--

Samson carried on.

The dog did not, in fact, go back to sleep. 

Orgasm approached like a hurtling wave, his balls tightening, the wet sounds of thrusts too loud in the hot, still air. Samson swore again, and each syllable drew out longer than the last, turning into hopeless moans. Just a little more, and--

A tongue laving against his hand, against his sloppy hole, startled Samson out of his rhythm. He whirled around, flipping onto his back to shove away, crawling back into a corner with widened eyes.

“What the  _fuck_ ,” he hissed, tangling in the sheets to cover himself with one hand, trying to shove the wolfdog away with the other. But the dog-- doesn’t have a name, yet, in case someone claims him, comes to take away the one thing in his life that’s found him and-- is sturdier than he is.

The dog noses closer, whuffling softly against the sheets, pressing his nose to where Samson’s still-hard erection pressed against it, the wet spot already apparent in the dingy grey. 

“No,” Samson insisted, shoving the muzzle away. “ _Bad dog_ , Just. Just go back to fucking sleep, you piece of shit animal--” The frustration is palpable. He’s still so hard and rubbed raw that he wants to cry. All that build up and he’s going to have to fucking do it again, he’d never had this problem with  _others_ , just by himself. 

But the dog takes no mind, and instead,  _growls_. Bares his fangs, slavering with drool, and does it again. It’s never been so fierce, not  _at_ Samson, and a hint of regret begins to take hold.

If the dog was, in fact, part wolf, then he’d made a very poor choice indeed to invite it inside. To get comfortable around it, not knowing that its mood was...volatile.

With another snarl, the dog rips at the sheets, provoking a yell out of Samson-- too many teeth, too close to  _delicate parts--_ and he dives out of the bed in a tangle of skinny limbs, crawling towards where he’d last kicked off his pair of pants.

And there’s that cold nose, again, rubbing against his too-hot skin. That long, rough tongue lapping eagerly at his loose ass, like trying to get to the treat inside a dog toy.

Almost immediately, Samson’s arms give out. “ _Maker_ ,” he hisses, trying to pull himself away, and the shame returns stronger than it’s ever been. A dog is eating him out, and his cock has never  _been_ so hard.   

He buries his face into his arms, cheeks already bright red from his exertions now doubly so. The sensations were overwhelming, overriding every bit of his brain that commanded a lick of logic. He’d never before looked at an animal this way, as a sexual creature capable of anything more sexual than licking his pink lipstick in mixed company. But here he is, dripping precome onto the carpet, entire body quivering beneath that tongue. It is a dog doing this, there’s no mistake. No humanity at all. Just instinct, single-minded and strong, a creature of mother nature doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.

It cannot last. It is such a selfless act that it simply cannot last. Samson takes himself in hand, giving in to filthy sensations with a weak, choked sob.The dog rumbles another growl, nipping at a firm asscheek, right above the crease in the meat of it. Samson yelps a response, hand flying away from his dick to steady his balance.

His heart thuds, his blood roars in his ears, a rushing river that drowns out everything but the deviant sounds of Samson getting brought off by an animal.

And then it is gone, that tongue. Samson  _does_  weep, then, and some small part of him is relieved, that the assault is over, that he didn’t come from such a thing, and yet more of him is...

 _Disappointed_.

Crawling forward again, on shaky arms and legs, he moves to stand, to go shower and scrub himself clean, until his skin is bright pink--

But two huge paws come down against his back, untrimmed claws scrabbling against it. His head knocks against the bedframe with a sharp crack, and-- for just a moment-- blackness swallows his vision whole, his whole body going fuzzy.

He comes to with more than fingers in his ass, although Samson can’t quite identify it. Thrashing wildly, he tries to turn to see, to pull away, to do anything-- but the paws are pressed down against his delicate shoulder blades, the weight of a hundred and fifty pounds of furred muscle keep him pinioned to the ground. 

Realization hits, and the arousal coupled with the shock spurs him to orgasm, clenching tight around the slick cock pistoning in and out of him. It  _feels_  different than fingers, than toys, than anything else. Slippery and too-heated, coring him. It’s too big, too much, and Samson’s throat is hoarse. He’d been whining subconsciously for a while, it seems, and from the sticky coldness around his knees, he must have come too.

A shiver runs through him.  _His body is not his own_. The dog leans down, licking at the back of his neck, teeth dragging across it without thought. He’s still humping, and Samson looks down between his legs, finally, to see.

It’s bigger than any fake cock he’s ever taken, that’s for sure, and it looks just as alien as it feels, all red and veiny. He tries to push himself up, but the dog snarls in his ear, slamming in  _hard_. There’s something at the base of that length, larger around, beginning to peek out of the sheath. Just enough for Samson to feel it with such a hard thrust, and  _oh Maker_ , that was. That was a knot.

His thrashing renews, scratches on his back be damned. Samson wrenches himself away, a collection of thin limbs pulled up protectively. He’s not rock hard, any more. The fervent  _need_  from before being knocked out has been erased by orgasms he hadn’t even been conscious for. It doesn’t mean he’s not aroused, though. He is. His body just can’t catch up to the perversions of his mind. 

“ _Bad dog_ ,” he tries, intones it as fiercely as he can, standing with wobbling legs like a newborn deer. Naked and with slick leaking out of his ass, he makes a not at all intimidating sight. The alpha dog knows a bitch when he see sit, when he smells it, and he approaches with a predatory stalk.

Samson backs up incrementally, until his back hits the wall. With a lunging snap, the dog takes full advantage, teeth grabbing for his ankle and  _yanking_ , pulling him backwards despite his screaming yells. The neighbors don’t care-- they hear worse on the regular, and produce worse even more so. 

The pain blooms in his leg, the skin broken by sharp, sharp teeth. Again, Samson makes the mistake of trying to  _crawl away_ \-- but is it really a mistake if his cock throbs at the realization of what he’s done? That the pain isn’t nearly as much of a deterrent as it should be? (That he thinks of someone watching, disgusted, that scarred mouth turning down in disgust--)

Samson whines, and the dog tries to fuck him open again, hard length jabbing against his ass until it finds the mark. The pace before had been unkind, and now it’s beyond brutal: fast and strong, enough to shake his entire frame, worn out from Lyrium as it is.

He realizes, in a moment of confusion at wetness on his cheeks, that he is weeping pathetically, tears squeezing out from the corner of his eyes from overstimulation. The pain of something  _too big_  beginning to catch against his hole. The idea of Cullen-- and he can think it, now, Maker help him, lost in the sensation of quite literally being fucked silly by an animal-- watching him debased. The shame that it’s a dog, one that he’d taken in out of the little remaining goodness in his heart. 

All these things combine into a potent aphrodisiac, a cocktail of filth that sends another orgasm through his body, even if his dick doesn’t so much as twitch. It just leaks completion, milked dry, the result of a prostate orgasm.

The knot pops in with a horrible sound, and Samson’s thrashing renew, pain is his only friend, his only companion,  _his only relief_. He is babbling Cullen’s name, pleading and cursing him, the massive thing inside him too insanely big to handle.

Hot liquid coats his insides, pulsating in waves, pumping Samson full of seed. If he were a bitch, he’d be heavy with puppies in a few short months, but the only thing that will linger from this encounter is shame, the kind that goes down to the bones and makes a home in the marrow. Samson can feel it sloshing around inside of him, pulling his belly taut. There’s nowhere for it to go, after all. The seal around the dog’s knot is huge, and it seems so fucking  _smug_  about it, licking into Samson’s mouth with eager abandon.

A job well done, it seemed to think. A job  _very_  well done indeed.

After a few moments, it slides off his back, turning around so that Samson is ass to ass with the creature. It pulls almost experimentally, stopping after a few pitiful cries of pain escape from its bitch. It takes a better part of thirty minutes for it to go down enough to slide out, and even then there’s trouble. Even then, it hurts ferociously as its pulled out, sending a cascade of come down Samson’s thigh.

The dog cleans itself, watching its “owner” with a baleful eye. A  _knowing_  eye. He licks his chops again, his long tongue running over the scar there. 

 _One day_ , Cullen thinks contently.  _One day, he’ll realize that he’s better as a bitch than a man._

**Author's Note:**

> (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞ this came out of nowhere


End file.
